


Clutching Daffodils

by Gemi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Body Horror, Fluff, I mean Hanahaki even when fluffy is body horror, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love (at first), hanahaki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:46:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemi/pseuds/Gemi
Summary: Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight.It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs.He always liked the idea of it.And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 185
Kudos: 2089





	Clutching Daffodils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).

Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight. 

It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and _ instantly _ feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of _ knowing _ you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs. 

He always liked the idea of it, but his mum made it clear it was a _ stupid _ idea. Love at first sight is impossible, improbable and _ definitely _ not something Martin Blackwood should feel. Love is a fickle thing and not something one should linger on. There are more useful things to do.

She should know. She had _ her _ flowers surgically removed before Martin turned nine.

And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute and, somehow, against all odds, as Jonathan meets Martin’s eyes, a small scowl on his face and hands clutching files as Tim shows him where his desk is–

Martin feels a strange, twisting sensation deep inside.

  
  
  


* * *

It still takes an embarrassing amount of time for Martin to think that maybe it _ is _ Hanahaki. Because at first he thinks it’s a bug of some kind- there’s been a bad case of the sniffles sweeping through the Institute, Sasha having been laid out the week before- but he doesn’t get worse and the twisting feeling remains. Martin thinks maybe he ate something, or maybe he’s feeling anxious, maybe it’s allergies, maybe, maybe, _ maybe_.

And then there’s a day where Jon is scowling furiously at a statement as he chews on the end of one pencil, a second pencil sticking out from behind his ear. He looks prim and deranged all at once, his clothes perfectly ironed and proper for their workplace and his eyes narrowed into mere slits as he mutters to himself, words impossible to understand because he is chewing on a _ pen _ and his hair a mess because he tugged on it once too many times. 

Martin stares and that twisting feeling grows stronger. It _ crawls _ inside him, pushing upwards, and Martin leaps to his feet and rushes to the bathroom and manages to wave off any concern, any questions aimed his way. 

He manages to clumsily lock the door and then he is hunching over the toilet and coughing up red petals. The coughing turns into gagging, and then worse, and by the end of it Martin is wiping at the tears that fell during the mess. He stares down at the mass of petals. Bright red and messy, with one almost perfect, whole flower amongst it all.

Martin knows he should be concerned; knows his mum will snarl at the idiocy of it all if she ever finds out, knows that Tim and Sasha will tease inbetween concern.

But the flowers are so bright and vibrant and so very _ real_. Proof of what he always read about, proof of something he never _ really _ thought would happen to him.

He’s in love, and Martin hiccups a giggle. 

  
  
  


* * *

It doesn’t end there, of course. 

Martin sees Jon smiling to himself and immediately has to retreat to throw up white gardenias. Martin sees Jon frowning, visibly confused and _ cute _ about it as Tim raves on and on about _ Smirke _ and Martin has to hide a cough of tiny, purple petals. 

He talks about Jon to his mum, and she scowls when he gags on a massive hydrangea and snaps at him to _ stop that_.

Martin just buys a pack of throat pastilles instead, made specifically for Hanahaki, to soothe the effects and slow down the progress. He also gets a book on flower meanings, and delights in it every time a new flower spills past his lips. A new meaning to explore, new poetry to write. 

It’s…

_ Fun_.

It shouldn’t _ be _ fun, but it is. There’s a new surprise almost every day, and while Martin does feel constant pressure inside, he also feels warm and giddy and _ happy_. He hadn’t realized how not-happy he had been until now, and Martin soaks in it.

It’s almost nice, knowing Jon doesn’t love him back. It means Martin gets to keep this a little longer. The petals that can be saved he puts between the pages of his favorite poetry books, and he guiltily scrolls through endless pictures of flower arrangements and wonders and wishes and _ hopes_.

But he doesn’t expect Jon to love him back, and he doesn’t mind it, either. It’s just nice being in love. It’s nice having proof of it, even on bad days where nothing cheers him up except for when Jon mumbles a sleepy ‘_ thanks’ _ because Martin gave him tea. That _ ‘thanks’ _ has Martin coughing strands of heather, which he knows means _ admiration _ and _ beauty _ and _ solitude _ and yeah, that does fit. 

It gets worse, though. A lot worse. 

Because Jon is _ kind_.

He makes sure Martin can sleep in the Institute after Jane Prentiss followed him home, he nags on their boss to heighten security and Martin sees him crush more than one worm with a vicious stomp before acting like there was no worm to begin with, as if Martin is blind, as if Martin will panic if he sees one. (_ he does, but Jon’s attempts helps) _

And in turn there’s petals of all kinds of colors, white and red and purple and orange and pink and more. The pressure grows worse and he throws up whole flowers almost every day now, but Martin can still breathe without a problem. 

It’s fine. He’s _ fine_.

The most important thing is that Jon still doesn’t know. No one does, except his mum and maybe Elias, because Elias keeps making _ comments_. But Jon definitely can’t know. He’s too nice.

Martin doesn’t want to burden him.

Which, of course, is why Jon _ does _ find out. Because he had to be silly and stupid and _ amazing _ and ask if Martin _ died_, when they both may very well _ actually _ die to Jane Prentiss any second. 

“A _ ghost?”_ Martin asks, and he wants to laugh because Jon is looking flustered and defensive, like a kitten unwilling to give up a toy even when it knows it’s futile. It’s adorable and endearing and he _ loves him_. 

Instead of laughing, Martin coughs. 

At first it feels like a normal cough. But then he keeps coughing, and he can feel that pressure pushing upwards, the way he has grown used to. For the first time he _ tries _ to swallow it back, to stop it. But Martin knows it’s a losing battle.

He turns his head away and cough into the crook of his elbow. He can feel the petals on the tip of his tongue, silky and wet and Martin suddenly realize it’s not just a little cough.

“Bucket,” he manages to get out.

“What?”

“_Bucket_, Jon!” 

“Oh. Oh!” the man behind him gasps and Martin hears him scrambling about, the storage room tiny and safe but also void of anything useful. And yet, Jon manages to find and shove a plastic bin under Martin’s nose. 

Martin would say thanks, but he is too busy throwing up.

The petals are bright yellow, and don’t stay for very long as they are quickly replaced by complete flowers instead, and Martin knows they are daffodils. _ Chivalry _ and _ unrequited love _ and _ joy _ and _ happiness _ and Martin couldn’t have asked for a better betrayal. 

He also knows Jon is staring. That’s the good and bad thing with Jonathan Sims; his eyes are sharp and piercing, and Martin sometimes wonders if he can look through _ walls _ with how intense he can stare. That stare has filled him with delight and anxiety in equal measures. But right now it means he doesn’t have to turn his head to know Jon is, indeed, staring.

The last flower lands with a wet sound on top of the large pile of its kin. His cheeks feels wet- throwing up always makes his eyes tear up, just a little. 

There is silence.

Martin coughs. Clears his throat and licks his lips, and dares to smile at Jon, even if Jon’s eyes are stuck on the shock of yellow. 

“Thanks,” he says, because even if he is about to get his heart broken, he can still be _ polite_. “Best to, um, get it out of the way, right? Before we have to run or something,” he jokes, or tries to. It falls utterly flat. 

Jonathan Sims slowly meets his eyes.

“... who?” he asks, and Martin can’t help but scoff.

“Isn’t it obvious, Jon?” he replies, and Jon twitches, eyes flickering between the pile of flowers and Martin.

“But _ why? _ ” he asks, and Martin wants to ask again, isn’t it _ obvious?_ But maybe it isn’t. Maybe that’s something he and Jon have in common. Mostly, Martin has no actual idea what to say.

And then Tim breaks down the wall and Martin doesn’t get time to say anything at all.  
  


  
  


* * *

  
  


Jon returns to work with bandages all over and Martin wants to help.

Of course he wants to. He _ loves _ Jon, and the man is now hurt and scarred and clearly exhausted. But he’s also stubborn, and trying to help him is like… something very difficult. Like bathing a cat, maybe. With cold water.

Martin wonders if it would be easier if Jon didn’t _ know _ about the Hanahaki. Because right now, whenever he coughs, Jon looks guilty. And Jon looking guilty shouldn’t be _ sweet_, but it is, and that always makes Martin cough _ more_. 

Even Tim has caught on, though Sasha doesn’t seem to care. In her defense, _ all _ of them were more than a little bit traumatized by Jane’s unfortunate work visit. 

“Him? _ Really? _ ” Tim asks after he helps Martin sweep up yellow petals from the break room floor. He sounds more incredulous than worried, and Martin ducks his head and grins, because yes, _ him_.

“He’s nice,” he says, “And sweet. And- and pretty.”

“I guess there’s no accounting for taste,” Tim replies, doubtful, “Or being deaf. Or blind-”

“You can’t tell me you think he _ isn’t _ pretty.”

  
“I sure can!”

“It would be a lie, though.”

“A little,” Tim admits, and Martin almost chokes on his tea as he laughs. 

It’s actually a relief, having Tim know. It’s still a mess that _ Jon _ knows, but Martin is working on it. He has the feeling that maybe Jon mostly knows about Hanahaki from media and not real life. Tim seems to be different- he knows it can take years upon years for it to grow deadly, knows it’s not _ all _ bad because he’s quick to tease whenever Martin coughs up red rose petals because Jon is wearing _ that _ shirt.

It’s silly and a relief, and Martin wishes Jon could relax, too. Even if he _ does _ understand why Jon wouldn’t, doesn’t, can’t.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  


“Why....” Jon starts, and Martin looks up from his desk to stare at him. But whatever Jon was about to say seems lost, because he’s faltering and fidgeting and tugging on his sleeves. 

He needs to cut his hair, Martin thinks, and swallows back a cough.

“Why?” he coaxes, because the lines of- of boss and assistant have blurred a little. A lot. Martin has yet to decide if it’s a good or bad thing, but right now it _ is _ a good thing if it means he can get Jon talking. 

It seems to help. Jon stops fidgeting, eyes briefly lingering on Martin’s lips before their eyes meet. 

“You almost always, ah, yellow petals. You… you cough up yellow a lot. Is there a reason?”

“They’re daffodils,” Martin says, which is a good explanation if one has a book on flower meanings. 

Which Jon apparently has, now. Because he falters again, face dropping back into guilt because Martin has known since forever that Jon’s poker face is the _ worst_.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be,” Martin says, and hopes he doesn’t cough or throw up, even as his lungs and heart ache for completely different reasons. Jon looks so _ sad_. “I don’t mind, Jon. I don’t expect you to, to return my… affections?”

It feels dumb saying that, but it’s better than saying _ love_. Jon already looks like he’s about to bolt, there’s no need to add to it. 

“It’s kind of nice, actually,” Martin pushes on, and Jon frowns, confused, scrunching up his nose just a little, and Martin _ does _ cough then, because Jon frowning always looks more endearing than scary. 

No petals escape, though. That’s a relief.

“How can it be _ nice?”_ Jon demands, stepping closer, and he gestures at the little flower book on Martin’s desk, “it hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Not always. I mean, it doesn’t ever actually _ hurt_,” Martin explains, and now it’s his turn to fidget, to tug on his sleeves. “It’s just lots of pressure. But it’s nice knowing something is real, you know? That you’re not imagining things.”  
  


Jon’s frown deepens, but Martin is sure he knows the feeling. He’s pretty sure _ all _ of them do- Tim, Sasha, Jon and Martin. Maybe even Elias. An avalanche of worms, a body in some secret _ tunnels _ underneath the Institute. None of it ever seems very real, even with Jon and Tim wearing the scars to prove it. 

“Is that why you haven’t had the surgery?”

“Kind of,” Martin admits, and he thinks back to his mum. She _ was _ more warm before the surgery. He wonders if she would have done it, if she- if she had known how angry she would grow. “I mean, I will probably have the surgery if it gets very bad? But right now it’s not, so.”

“I just don’t understand _ why_.”

Martin blinks up at him. 

“Why what?”

“_Why,_” Jon repeats, and then falls silent again, unable to finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to, though. Martin is pretty sure he gets the gist of it.

“Why does _ anyone _ fall in love?” Martin asks, and regrets it immediately, because Jon flinches and hugs himself. He needs to eat more- he has somehow grown _ skinnier_. 

“Most people would be _ smarter _ about it,” Jon snaps, defensive and bristling and guilty. Martin kinda gets it- if it had been reversed, if _ he _ had been unable to return someone’s love…

But that isn’t how it is, and he’s _ fine_.

“I don’t know,” Martin says and grins, even if it is a wobbly one, “I think I’m very clever about it. It’s, um, it’s almost lunch, by the way. Wanna grab a bite to eat?”

“I…”

“Just as friends.” His smile weakens. “Not even that, if you want? Just coworkers, if that feels better for you.”

Jon stares, and Martin doesn’t think he _ knows _ he’s worrying at his bottom lip. It’s an endearing quality, one of many, and Martin somehow holds back a cough.

“... fine,” Jon says, finally averting that intense gaze, and Martin takes a deep breath, wondering when he _ stopped _ breathing. “Lunch sounds good.” 

Martin wonders if he should invite Tim and Sasha, too. But then he decides he’s too selfish for that; just once, it’s nice to have Jon all for himself. And it _ is _ nice. They buy their sandwiches and retreat to the storage room where Jon asked if Martin was a ghost. It feels safe, somehow, even if part of the wall is badly patched together from when Tim broke through. 

Maybe it feels safe because they _ didn’t _ die in there. Maybe it feels safe because Martin spent too much time sleeping in it. 

And then Jon asks him if he killed Gertrude, nervous and intense all at once, and Martin doesn’t know if he should laugh or cry, because what the _ hell_, Jon? 

He ends up laughing so hard he throws up, daisies landing in a plastic bin as Jon hovers over him, _ loyal love _ and _ secret keeping _ spilling past Martin’s lips, as fitting as always. When done, he wipes at the tears on his cheeks. 

“What the _ hell_, Jon?” he asks what he couldn’t say before, and Jon crumples.

“You haven’t answered-”

“I didn’t! I didn’t kill Gertrude. But why would you ask that? Like, like _ this__?_ We’re alone in a small room, Jon. A _ soundproofed _ room.”

Jonathan Sims blinks, as if he only just realized what a bad idea this whole thing was. Then he seems to steel himself, squaring his shoulders.

“You wouldn’t hurt _ me_. Not- not with-” he glances towards the pile of daisies, and ends up just gesturing at it.

“... right,” Martin says, because that _ is _ true. “But why would you think I- I killed her? Why _ me__?”_ and he gestures at himself, his sweater and his scuffed shoes and his _ everything_. Martin knows he’s big, but he’s not the _ scary _ kind of big. “Out of everyone?”

“I found a letter.”

“A… letter?”

  
“To your mother.”

Martin knows which letter that is. He remembers exactly which one it is, knows he threw it into the trash ages ago. 

“Why are you digging through trash, Jon?” he asks, too bewildered to think much farther than that. Jon flushes.

“_Someone _ killed Gertrude, and they might try to hurt any of us,” he hisses, and Martin watches him as Jon begins to pace restlessly in the tiny, soundproofed room, “I need to find out why they did it! And if they’re going to hurt me too, or _ us_. And it has to be someone with ties to the Institute, how else did they move her body from her office to the tunnels?” 

“Jon, the police are _ investigating _ that! We don’t- you don’t need to, you shouldn’t have to try and hunt them down yourself. That’s just a bad idea!”

“The police are too slow! And you- you haven’t explained the letter!”

“Wh- the letter isn’t important,” he protests, because it isn’t, not really. He’s been working at the Institute for _ years _ now. He has had Hanahaki for _ three _ years and he still manages to do his job. He might have started out fake, but Martin has learned throughout that time, he knows how to do things now.

“It _ is _ important! ** JUST TELL ME!**”

Martin gapes up at Jon; he has never heard Jon _ yell _, not like that, and he looks utterly deranged and furious and-

Martin coughs. Once. Twice. Orange rose petals slip past his lips, and Jon takes a startled step back, his fury melting away as he pales.

“Martin- I, I am sorry-”

He waves him off, coughing more, but he isn’t gagging, at least. There is just a mess of orange drifting to the floor, because Martin stupidly put the plastic bin aside. 

“I’m fine, Jon,” he wheezes, because he is, and he desperately hopes that Jon didn’t read up on rose meanings. Orange, he knows, is all about _ passion _ and _ fascination _ and _ energy_. It would be so, so bad if Jon knew that. “It’s- the letter really isn’t important.”

“It’s-” Jon cuts himself off, faltering. He’s hovering anxiously, as if he wants to step closer but is afraid it will set Martin off more. “It’s… it’s important to _ me_.”

And Martin could never deny Jon that, could he? He loves this silly, passionate man, enough that he has let flowers grow within him for years and plans to let them grow until they _ truly _ hinder his health, until the harmless coughing becomes bloodied. So Martin can’t help but melt, to nod.

“Alright,” he says, and for the very first time shares his secret. 

He doesn’t get fired. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Jon grows worse but, somehow, better at the same time. Martin catches him obsessing over photos of their coworkers’ homes, sees him snap and bristle at anyone he seems to think is a suspect, muttering about clues and leads and chewing on pencils and stacking old tape recorders. Martin hears him theorize to himself about which one of their coworkers is the killer, most if not all theories making little to no sense. He thinks _ Elias _ did it because their boss told Jon to stop _ stalking _ people. But Jon trusts Martin.

He _ trusts _ Martin. 

Where Jon snaps at the others, he relaxes when Martin enters the room. He accepts the tea and sandwiches, and Jon _ almost _ listens when Martin tries to make him go home on time for once. They are small things, but with Jon’s growing paranoia, Martin can’t help but feel proud, feel _ appreciated_.

Martin still coughs daffodils more often than not, but now sunflower petals join as well. _ Adoration _ and _ dedication _ mingling with nearly every other flower he coughs up, and it drives Tim mad and still makes Jon look guilty and uncomfortable. But they are proof, still, of love and also of how that love is _ changing_. That’s exciting! It probably shouldn’t be, but so many things shouldn’t be what they are and Martin will take what he can get.

Because even if Jon _ is _ being paranoid and twitchy and growing ruder every day, he isn’t exactly wrong. Someone did kill Gertrude, and that person may very well still be at the Institute.

  
  
  


* * *

Jon does something that gets Martin and Tim chased through endless hallways and when they _ finally _ get out, there is a body in Jon’s office and Jon himself is gone. Everything happens too fast and too slow after that, Tim sure that Jon is a killer, the police searching their apartments and finding nothing, Martin doing his best to ignore the pitying glances he gets when he admits to having Hanahaki for a possible murderer. At least it gets him off the suspect list. 

No one sane would run to their Hanahaki infected colleague for help, after all. History books are a good example of how bad that could go- spending too much time in a confined space with someone who is _ dying _ because of you is always a recipe for disaster. Someone dying because of _ love _ tends to make things worse, and worse tends to mean more bloody. So Martin is let off the hook, deemed as unimportant as he always is. 

That should be the end of it. 

Except Martin finds a frazzled Jon hovering outside his apartment door the next day. He’s still wearing the same clothes as the day before. He looks more deranged than ever, which is fitting, really. No one _ sane _ would try and hide out at their Hanahaki infested colleague’s apartment.

Martin gags on tiny white flowers in big bunches, the kind he knows that means _ sanctuary_. 

“I didn’t do it,” Jon blurts out, wringing his hands, something Martin didn’t even think people actually _ did _ outside of books. 

  
“I know,” Martin says, spitting petals into a napkin as he steps aside. That isn’t good enough though. Martin can’t help but smile, just a bit, because Jon looks so _ affronted_.

“Just like that?” he asks, not stepping closer to Martin. “Just like _ that_, Martin? Really?”

  
“Really, Jon,” he replies, and he _ loves _ this stupid, crazy man. Loves him enough that he can feel vines twisting inside, the threat of more flowers forcing their way out. “Please come in?” 

Jon stares for a moment longer. Martin starts to worry he might actually say no, might try to hide somewhere else all because Martin is being too _ nice_. It would be just like him. 

And then Jon gets in, and Martin sighs with relief. 

He really shouldn’t. It’s such a bad idea, for so many different reasons. Jon looks twitchy and not at all trustworthy. The only thing saying Jon isn’t a murderer is Martin’s gut instinct. 

“Let me put the kettle on,” Martin says, because tea is such a simple thing. 

Jon follows him.

* * *

  
  
  


Living with Jon isn’t anything like what Martin daydreamed about. Granted, he didn’t have Hanahaki in those daydreams. Martin is pretty sure it would make everything easier if he wasn’t constantly choking on flowers.

Because, surprising no one but Jon, being near the cause of Hanahaki every day means an increase in flowers. 

“Can I… do something?” Jon asks, hovering in the doorway as Martin spits out the last strands of heather. He isn’t sure if he can even flush them down the drain- but he will take the risk. He doesn’t want to dig them out of the toilet. 

“Like what?” Martin wonders, wiping at his mouth as he stands up. He put down the lid and flushes, somehow hoping that if he can’t _ see _ the toilet getting clogged, it won’t. 

“To make you… _ not _ do that.”

Martin blinks at Jon. Beautiful Jon, who isn’t a murderer but who is a _ maniac _ that has declared Martin’s taste in poetry _ awful _ but also read through all of his books out of boredom. Jon who somehow still keeps recording statements and Martin doesn’t even want to know how he keeps getting them. How they keep getting into Martin’s postbox. 

“Are you asking me how to make me _ not _ love you?” he asks, incredulous, and Jon flushes and averts his eyes. 

He has done that a lot since he began to hide out in Martin’s apartment. It’s probably because the place is tiny and cramped and _ very _ obviously made for just one person. They tried to sleep in the same bed, but every time Martin so much as _ thought _ about Jon right next him he had to rush to the bathroom.

Now they switch between bed and couch, because going out and buying an air mattress feels a little too suspicious. It’s a bad couch, though. Martin is more tempted every night. 

“Perhaps,” Jon gets out, voice strained, and Martin coughs. It makes the other man glower at him. “Stop that!”

“I _ can’t_.”

“Why can’t you just have the surgery?” Jon says, _ demands_, and follows Martin as he exits the bathroom. Like a tiny, yappy dog that’s found a bone and refuses to let go. It’s annoyingly endearing, even now. “No one would find it suspicious if you did so now, when I am considered a murder suspect.”

“Jon, I’m not having the surgery. Not until it gets _ really _ bad.”

“But _ why? "_

“My mum had the surgery,” he says. “It didn’t go well so I don’t want to do it until I really, really have to, Jon. Alright?”

Martin stops. Hand hovering by the kettle. 

He didn’t… mean to say that. It had just slipped out, somehow. He doesn’t think he ever told _ anyone _ about that, and Jon has grown quiet behind him. 

The potential side effects of Hanahaki surgery are well known. An utter lack of feeling towards the person that was the cause of it was expected and considered a good thing. But sometimes the opposite happened, where love was replaced by hate. In rare cases that hate even spills over onto others. Martin knows his mum is one of those rare cases, even if he _ really _ doesn’t like to think about it too much. 

It’s probably easy for Jon to put the pieces together. He’s good at that.

“A-Anyway,” Martin says, breaking the silence as he begins to fill the kettle with water, “It’s not too bad yet. I’m actually very stable, I’ve visited a specialist to check. It’s, um, it’s recommended. She said I had nothing to worry about for a while yet.”

“... was that before or after I moved in here?”

“What tea do you want?” Martin asks, because the answer to Jon’s question should be obvious. 

“_ Martin_.”

_ “Jon,” _ he replies, finally turning to look at- at his- his something. His boss. His Jon. His secret room mate. “What tea do you want?”

Jon glares up at him. But Martin has withstood worse than that. He stares back until Jon’s shoulders slump in defeat.

“Green,” he mutters and sits down.

“Alright,” Martin agrees, and the silence that settles is awkward. But at least Jon has given up for now.

  
  
  


* * *

It’s not _ all _ bad. 

In fact, most of the time it isn’t bad at all.

Jon rarely sleeps the whole night, he is picky when it comes to eating and when he’s bored he likes to verbally tear apart every single book Martin owns. None of those things makes Martin cough up any flowers, and sometimes Martin wonders if that’s why Jon is so vicious about the last one especially. If it’s a step in his plan to make Martin fall out love. 

But then he makes Martin tea. He actually cooks more often than not, to the point that Martin is kind of growing used to coming home to hot food on the table. He turns out to like the same kind of documentaries and shows as Martin does, enough that more than once they go to bed too late because they spent the entire evening and half the night discussing one together. 

Sometimes he catches Jon smiling to himself as he reads. Always different smiles- smug little smirks, badly bitten back smiles as he so obviously tries to not laugh or even snort. Soft, small smiles that feel like a secret. 

Jon often say things before he thinks it through. Martin already knew that, and it’s only more noticeable now. But Jon, it turns out, is very much a guy who prefers to act over talk. To show his appreciation through little gestures even as he gets snippy at Martin. 

Martin throws up a lot of flowers. 

  
  


* * *

Aloe vera is not a flower, and Martin thinks that’s quite rude of it. Because he could _ use _ some now, because Jon is an idiot who shook hands with a _ serial killer_. Who can _ melt _ things with their _ hands_. Who, actually, tried to melt Jon’s hand.

Convincing Jon to take the painkillers is a tougher battle than it should be. But coughing up purple statice helps, probably because it makes Jon fold out of pure guilt. For once the Hanahaki is helpful- even if it doesn’t let him throw up aloe vera. 

Martin will take what he can get.

He seriously considers calling in sick. He feels like he ran a marathon when he came home to Jon clumsily trying to wrap his hand with bandages. It feels like he had a heart attack and barely survived. Jon had still smelt of burning flesh and had looked close to passing out. Being home might ease a bit of Martin’s worries- would at the very least ensure that Jon can’t sneak off to meetings with serial killers while he is at work.

He sits on the bed and watches Jon drool into the pillow. Martin managed to rewrap his hand before, had to google for instructions on how to treat the burns with what he had at home. It… almost looks alright, but he wishes he could take Jon to the hospital.

Jon snorts. Shifts and presses closer to Martin, his uninjured hand grasping loosely at the edge of Martin’s sweater.

It’s hopelessly sweet.

Martin’s hands are shaking when he takes Jon’s hand. He just holds it and tries to breathe through the panic he felt since he came home. Pink petals, tulip, stick to the roof of his mouth before he coughs them out. 

He isn’t sure if _ perfect love _ fits the moment.

Jon’s fingers twitch. Martin presses a thumb against Jon’s pulse and does his best to breathe alongside it. Squeezes Jon’s hand when he mumbles in his sleep. Slowly, his heartbeat starts to slow into something normal. 

He doesn’t move for a very long time.

  
  
  


* * *

Martin calls in sick and Jon throws a fit over it.

“They will suspect!”

  
“They _ won’t! _ Stop- stop trying to do the dishes, what’s _ wrong _ with you-”

“Tim will think you are held hostage again, he will come and visit and, stop, I am not an _ invalid_, Martin.”

“That is exactly what you are, though! _ Sit down_.” 

Martin pulls himself up to his full height. Jon doesn’t look scared at all, which would normally be nice but right now Martin just wants him to sit down and not try and touch anything. Because _ Martin _ hasn’t forgotten that Jon is severely injured. 

Jon scowls up at him, not cowed in the least. Martin tries to glare. He knows he’s not very good at glaring, though, and Jon certainly doesn’t seem impressed.

“Tim will come and check,” Jon instead insists.

“He won’t. I called him after, alright? We came up with a codeword and I’ll send it every day, now _ please_, Jon, sit down.”

“I can still do things. I can- I am not-”

“Then sit down for me? Please? Just, peace of mind, that’s all I ask.”

Jonathan Sims falters. The shirt he’s wearing is too big, and Martin wants to reach over and tug it back up onto his shoulder. He doesn’t, though. Because he’s not rude. And also because Jon needs to sit down and Martin can’t show any weakness. Not the unhelpful kind, anyway.

“I’m not useless,” Jon says, a weak protest.

“Of course not. But you’re hurt and I don’t want it to get worse,” Martin replies, and he can feel the tickling of petals in the back of his throat. “I’ve got this.”

Jon finally sits down. Martin lets out a relieved sigh and pretends he doesn’t see the insulted glare Jon gives him for it.

“Thank you,” he says instead, and turns back to the sink. 

It’s silent for a while. He can almost _ feel _ Jon trying to say something, always faltering. He’s probably working up an argument, Martin thinks fondly. 

It’s when Martin is drying the last plate that Jon finally speaks up.

“You didn’t have to call in sick.”

“You told me you got a lead on Michael Crew,” Martin says, because that is really answer enough, isn’t it? But apparently not to Jon. 

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with this,” the love of his unbelievable life mutters sullenly. 

“Jon,” Martin sighs and turns around. He leans against the kitchen counter and just _ looks _ at Jon for a moment. “Are you going to tell me you won’t go looking for him? A guy who, you know, is _ also _ a serial killer, just like Jude Perry?” 

Jon hesitates, and that’s that.

“See? _ That’s _ why I called in sick. It’s not even been a whole day and you want to go looking for him!”

“It’s a _ lead_, Martin! And it might disappear just because you want to play nurse!” Jon snaps back, that sharp tongue of his making a comeback. But Martin has endured worse from Jon. He has endured worse from his _ mum_. 

“At least me playing nurse means you might be able to _ hold _ things in the future,” he snaps back and rubs at his chest. It doesn’t feel like a cough is coming, but it aches weirdly, as if the vines in his lungs are moving. Jon’s eyes snap to his hand, and Martin drops it, feeling suddenly awkward. “I care too much about you to let you just… run off when you’re already hurt, Jon,” he says, tries to soften his voice. 

He can’t say the word love. It will just make things worse, but he hopes that Jon can catch the hint, anyway. 

Jon looks away. He cradles his bandaged hand with his other one, and Martin wonders if maybe it’s time to rewrap it. He bought aloe vera before Jon woke up, the painkillers making him sleep heavy enough that Martin wasn’t _ too _ worried about leaving him unattended for a short while. But maybe it’s too soon to unwrap the bandages. Martin isn’t sure.

“The fridge is empty,” Jon says. “You need to go shopping.”

It _ is _ almost empty. Only food fitting for breakfast, not lunch. But Jon isn’t as sneaky as he thinks he is. Martin shrugs and reaches for the teabags.

“We’ll order pizza,” he says, and can’t help but giggle at Jon’s disappointed frown.

  
  


* * *

It’s expensive, ordering home food every day. But there is literally no other choice- Martin _ knows _ how stubborn Jon is. It’s one of the many traits he fell in love with. He knows that if he leaves for even a short while, Jon will try his very best to sneak away to shake the hand of a second serial killer. 

Martin just has to make sure Jon doesn’t get the chance. And so they order home. 

Pizza is the easiest one; it can be eaten with one hand and there are so many different toppings, it’s hard to grow tired of it. And even before Jon received his burns, he was _ awful _ at using chopsticks so chinese is out. It had been cute and more than a little hilarious, but Jon had also been too proud to let Martin just feed him, and the fork hadn’t exactly helped. Noodles were slippery things. 

But they settle into something that’s almost routine. They already had one, before Jude Perry happened. But this is something else. Something cozy and a little maddening, because Martin can’t _ leave _ which means they never get a break from each other. Well, except for when Martin manages to convince Jon to take more painkillers.

They aren’t even the strong kind, but they always knock Jon out cold. 

There is more bickering. Sometimes Jon very obviously tries to pick a fight, maybe hoping Martin will get so mad he rushes out of the apartment. It doesn’t work, of course, and then Jon feels so guilty that he lets Martin have the remote, lets Martin decide what they should watch. Jonathan Sims is his own worst enemy, and Martin adores him. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


It takes a few days for Martin to realize there haven’t been any flowers in a while.

There is still that strange twisting in his chest, though it grows less every day. And the phantom feeling of petals in the back of his mouth lingers, but he doesn’t actually ever cough or vomit up anything. 

Maybe he should be happy about it. Logically he _ should _ be. But it doesn’t make any sense, is the thing. 

The moment Martin _ truly _ realizes the Hanahaki might be gone is when he is rebandaging Jon for the third time. Because Jon is avoiding looking at his wounds, and he’s doing so by staring at the tv and the documentary on it, and he rambles about it. Apparently it’s about cats, and apparently Jon _ loves _ cats. He is soft and excited about it, then randomly veers into talking about one of Martin’s favorite poets and how, maybe, their work isn’t _ all _ bad. He says it in such a snotty tone. 

It’s domestic. It’s endearing, and Martin wants to kiss the bandages covering Jon’s knuckles when it’s done. He wants to pull Jon close and cuddle him, keep him warm and safe and listen to him ramble in that weird, intense way he does.

But there are no flowers.

Despite all those thoughts, despite Jon being utterly adorable and endearing and _ loveable_, Martin doesn’t cough up a single flower.

Jon is oblivious to the panic Martin feels at the realization. He only waves Martin off when he goes to get them tea, and Martin is grateful for that.

Because- 

Because Hanahaki only stops due to three natural causes. When one falls out of love, when one’s love is returned and the last, most gruesome one: when you die from it.

Martin is _ certain _ he is still in love with Jon.

He has to be. 

Why else would he want to kiss his _ hands?_ To keep him safe? He has to be in love still, there’s just no… flowers. And Jon hasn’t fallen for him, he can’t have- he hasn’t changed how he acts, he hasn’t _ said _ anything. 

And dying from Hanahaki is messy. Things get worse, they don’t just disappear. There is blood and more flowers and in extreme cases the very _ roots _ start appearing. But none of that is happening, so clearly something is wrong.

Martin panics quietly while making tea. 

When he returns to the couch, Jon smiles up at him, that soft and secret smile, and Martin feels nothing twisting inside. 

It should be a relief.

It really isn't. 

* * *

  
  
  


Telling Jon is out of the question. 

Jon is already paranoid, already trying to figure out a way to convince Martin that tracking down a supernatural serial killer is a _ good _ idea, actually. Martin doesn’t know what telling Jon about this new thing will do, but he knows it can’t be good. It’s a miracle that Jon hasn’t noticed the lack of flowers yet. 

But like so many times in their lives, Jon doesn’t have to _ notice _ to find things out.

It’s such a sweet gesture, really. It’s morning and Jon is drowning in one of Martin’s sweaters while reading the news. It’s peaceful, and Martin tries his very best to focus on _ that_, rather than the lack of coughing at the sight before him.

Then Jon picks up the tiny box of pastilles. The ones Martin has used for years to soothe his throat, to help against the Hanahaki. The one he doesn’t need anymore, which is good because there are only two left in it and he still can’t leave the apartment to get more.

Jon checks the inside of it and frowns, the guilty one that Martin knows should have him choking on yellow petals. 

“You need more,” Jon says, awkwardly fumbling with the box, because he somehow keeps forgetting he can’t use his bandaged hand to hold stuff.

“I’ll be fine, Jon,” he replies, because it’s the truth, and then he cheekily adds, “You won’t trick me that easily, you know. Still not letting you slip away.” 

Jon scowls at him. 

“It’s not a trick,” he says, insulted, “I wouldn’t use _ that _ against you.” He looks back at the box, his scowl melting away to be replaced by uncertainty. “I could… come with you,” he reluctantly says, and how can Martin _ not _ be in love with him, with how warm he feels inside at the badly hidden concern? “It should be simple. I only need to cover my face with a scarf. That, and wear a pair of your ridiculous glasses should be more than enough to hide who I am.” 

“Thank you, Jon,” he softly replies, and takes the box, his next words far from planned, “but I’ll be _ fine_. I haven’t needed them for days.”

He blames the slip-up on Jon’s worry. He _ hates _ it when Jon worries, after all. For a moment, Martin wants to take it back. Because he didn’t _ mean _ to say it, and now Jon looks hurt. 

He looks _ hurt_.

Martin stares as Jon badly tries to cover it up, picking up the newspaper again, trying to hide behind it as he awkwardly holds it with one bandaged hand. 

“That’s good,” Jon says, voice strained and a little wobbly from behind the flimsy paper, “Then you needn’t put any money into surgery.”

Martin hasn’t needed the pastilles for days and instead of relief, Jon looks _ hurt_. It feels very important, that fact. Martin knows he should say something, anything, but his mind is swirling and all he can do is stare.

Jon slowly peeks over the newspaper. He’s frowning; he looks confused.

“Martin?” he asks, lowering the paper further, enough that Martin can see his lips. 

He hasn’t needed the pastilles for days. The last flower he remembers was pink tulip, the first night after Jon’s injury. When Jon pressed close and mumbled in his sleep, clutching Martin’s hands. It stands for _ perfect love_. 

It also means _ A Declaration of Love_.

Martin opens his mouth, but no words come out. Jon is quickly going from confused to worried, which is probably bad. Martin _ should _ say something. All he’s doing is opening and closing his mouth instead, probably looking like an especially shocked fish.

Hanahaki disappears when love is returned.

“Martin,” Jon says, standing up, “is something wrong?” he asks, hands hovering, as if he wants to touch but can’t quite make himself do it. Somehow _ that _ makes Martin react. Makes him reach out and hold Jon’s hands in his, and he is careful when holding the hurt one. Jon blinks down at him, the frown returning, but he isn’t pulling away.

“Jon,” Martin says, “_Jon_.”

“Yes?” he replies, endearingly uncertain, and Martin stands up and steps closer. Jon’s confused frown deepens but he doesn’t step away. He only leans back a little, cranes his head back to squint up at him. 

“I- are you- do you,” Martin stutters, words impossible to find, but it’s important, so _ very _ important. He has to find them. “I love you,” he gets out, and Jon’s eyes widen, lips parting.

“Do you love me?” Martin manages to ask. 

For the longest time in his entire life, there is nothing but silence.

Jon stares and Martin stares back, hope beating wildly alongside his heart. It makes no sense, of course, that Jon would love him _ back_. Martin has never been that lucky. 

But it would explain the lack of flowers.

“Yes.”

Jon says it like it’s a surprise. As if he didn’t _ know _ until now, and maybe that’s how it is. Because he looks as shocked as Martin feels, and the hand that isn’t injured squeezes Martin’s painfully hard. 

“Yes,” Jon repeats, blinking, “I do.”

They stare a moment longer. Slowly, Martin feels himself smiling. Wide enough his cheeks hurt from it, and he can see the corners of Jon’s lips twitching upwards too. 

“Why?” Jon asks, because of course he does, “why would you love _ me? _” 

Martin laughs. It’s more like a surprised snort, but that’s not flattering at all. He shakes his head and takes that tiny step closer, now close enough it’s almost awkward but not quite.

“How couldn’t I?” he returns, and before Jon can return with a snappy remark, Martin dares to ask, “can I kiss you?”

Jon blushes. He nods.

Martin smiles into the kiss, and Jon smiles too.

**Author's Note:**

> So I put my own little spin on Hanahaki! Hope fans of the trope don't mind UwU;;
> 
> The challenge was to make it fluffy, and I sure hope I managed it! Thank you so much for reading <3
> 
> The illustrations were done by the incredible [everchased](https://everchased.tumblr.com/) and [linecrosser!](https://linecrosser.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!


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